


Someday You Will Hear My Name

by hornedqueen



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark Jon, Future Fic, M/M, Mind Reading, Porn With Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-08-09 22:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16458296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hornedqueen/pseuds/hornedqueen
Summary: A thousand years after the end, Jonathan stands in a tower in what they once called London and watches the world. Martin is only meant to be a night's bedmate, a distraction: yet there is something achingly familiar about him, something that Jonathan - who knows everything, who has seen everything - cannot name, and he cannot let it go.Porn (with) Plot





	1. Chapter 1

Sex reminded his body that it had once been human. Remembering this was important to him, but he did not know why. By the grace of the Beholding, Jonathan Sims was permitted to remain a mystery to himself.

 

It had been a thousand years since the Beholding had achieved absolute dominion of this earthly realm. Jon stood in the tower erected among the rubble where London had once been and saw—everything. Everything. Through eyes that were not his eyes he saw the rising of suns in distant galaxies, the frenzy of maggots and microbes on decaying carcasses, the struggle of the young man being borne inexorably up the tower stairs.

 

Jon knew in a moment the story of his entire life; the deaths and births of his ancestors, the first kiss beneath an apple tree far away from here, the desperate struggle to resurrect the dead gods. He saw also, with clinical detachment, how the body would look without the layer of ash and grime, and how it would look once it was well-fucked in Jon's bed.

 

The door opened, and out of obligation more than anything else, Jon turned to face him.

 

And stared, breath coming fast, looking out of his own eyes for what felt like the first time in a very, very long time. The young man was meeting his eyes boldly; afraid, of course, but making a brave show. Jon's body felt electric with a knowledge that had nothing to do with the Beholding. It felt as if he knew those eyes; kind, dreaming eyes that Jon had once looked into a thousand years before, although that was impossible.

 

"Bathe him," he heard himself saying, "and bring him to my rooms."

 

When the guards had dragged the man from the tower room, and Jon was once more as alone as he ever could be, he touched his hand to his lips, perplexed at the way they tingled.

 

"Martin," he said into the empty air, but he did not know why.

 

* * *

 

 

The man was already naked and kneeling as Jon entered his chambers. The look of confusion and fear on his face had not gone, but was merely buried, subsumed by the aphrodisiac that had laced his bathwater.

 

The man struggled to his feet as Jon came near. Martin—why was the name on his lips?—the man said, unsteadily,

 

"Please—please—I need—"

 

"I know," said Jon. He wrapped his arms around him, felt the man shudder against his body. Again, that impossible feeling: his hands knew this man's body, but Jon was sure he had never known anyone named Martin. He spoke as he would have to a human lover. "I know what you need."

 

He half dragged, half carried the man to his bed. Martin—Jon could not seem to think of the man any other way—clutched at him, desperate; Jon looked into his mind and saw arousal, so all-consuming and powerful that there was barely any room left for any other thought; without any effort at all Jon saw how he liked to be touched and fucked, all the intimate fantasies that he had never revealed to any lover. Tenderly he bent him over the edge of his bed, belly down on the sheets, ass up in the air. His thighs he slung over his own shoulders as he knelt down on the floor, spreading his buttocks with his hands, squeezing as he went.

 

Martin was moaning at just his touch, utterly beyond words. Jon saw a single thought in his mind, a simple chorus of _please, please, please_ —

 

Jon lowered his mouth, delicately teasing and circling with his tongue. His nerve endings were firing from Martin's pleasure, felt from inside Martin's own mind. Jon was wholly absorbed in Martin, feeling nothing else, seeing nothing else; as blind as a human.

 

Martin's moans had crescendoed into a whimpering cry, but Jon almost did not hear it; he was listening to Martin's far more eloquent thoughts, which encouraged him to lick, to suck, to probe further and wetter and—

 

Jon lapped, breath coming fast. He had caught Martin's desperation, and his desires. It was getting harder for him not to do exactly as Martin wanted; his pleasure was a current carrying Jon along. He was not the avatar of the Beholding, the anchor holding a god into the world; he was an animal, warm and small and living, with an animal's needs. When Martin had had enough of his tongue, Jon stood and slid his cock into him.

 

It went in easily and wet; Jon's servants would have prepared Martin well. His hips slammed forward at a precise rhythm shaped by Martin's unconscious desires. The thought in Martin's mind was gratitude, _thank you for fucking me thank you thank you keep going I'll do anything_ —but Jon was the one who truly felt he ought to be grateful; grateful for this moment that reminded him what humans did, how they touched and loved each other, how they perpetuated the great lie that they were not each and every one of them alone.

 

When they came they cried out in one voice.

 

Afterwards Martin, still deep in the grips of the aphrodisiac, curled up within Jon's arms. He liked to be embraced like this, liked to feel small and protected; Jon read it clearly in his mind. Their bodies fit together like a hand in a glove, that strange familiarity that had haunted every touch and glance since he had arrived in Jon's tower in the ruins of London.

 

The guards came not long after, to take him away, but Jon shook his head. His eyes were already filled with images from far away—the terror of refugees trudging through deep snow, the ecstasy of wolves chasing after an injured deer, the despair and impotent rage of the people who loved the man in his arms—but he was also looking at Martin's sleeping face, peaceful in the dim light. The aphrodisiac was wearing off, and Jon could see in his mind how much he would hate him when he woke.

 

"Let him stay," he said. "Let him sleep."


	2. Chapter 2

He should have let the guards take Martin away. Reusing his partners often left him vulnerable, and the Beholding had a limited patience for such risk. He could not himself explain it, except for something he had not felt for some time: curiosity. He could not explain the strange connection he felt.

 

Even Martin's anger felt familiar.

 

"You drugged me! You—you—" Jon could see the word in Martin's mind, but neither of them said it out loud. "Oh, fuck. I need to go. I need to get out. Let me go, you bastard, or just kill me or—"

 

"Tell me," said Jon distantly. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

 

Martin's mind shaped a furious denial, but it never reached his mouth.

 

"Yes," he said instead. "It was the best I've ever been fucked and I'd do anything to be fucked like that again."

 

His hands flew to his mouth, too late.

 

"No," he said shakily after a moment. "I won't let you get into my head, make me say things I don't mean."

 

"We both know you were telling nothing but the truth."

 

For a moment they stared at each other, and Jon saw himself through Martin's eyes; a pale, thin figure of a man who did not look as if he hosted a god, save that his eyes were strangely ablaze, as if they reflected light from other suns, and they did not blink.

 

"Why," said Martin. "Why have me captured just so you can shag me while I'm too senseless to resist—" _or do anything but beg for it_ , his mind supplied, and he flushed at once, suspecting that Jon had heard it. "You're—you're—a god! You're literally a god!"

 

"It offers me...reprieve," said Jon. He tried to bring his greater focus back to the conversation, to explain it in a way a human would understand. "I see the world; I see all of it at once, from every pair of eyes, whether mortal or machine. I watch the seabirds play off the broken cliffs of what they once called Wyoming. I see the travels of distant satellites through the universe. I observe the executions your government holds in my honor. I see you, watching me," and Martin turned his face away, pale with horror. "Sex allows me to be blind—If I so choose—for a while."

 

Martin, still looking anywhere but at him, stammered. "But—but—"

 

"Enough, Martin." Impatience made his voice harsh.

 

"That's not my name," he said, but only faintly. He already knew what was coming.

 

"Do you want me to fuck you again?"

 

"Yes," said Martin, softly, instantly. Then, in the next second, "No! No, I could never."

 

Jon saw his mind burning with desire and shame. He waited, and Martin at last said:

 

"Yes." Tears slipped from those kind, dreaming eyes that had so arrested Jon when they first met. "Please fuck me. Please."

 

And he dropped to his knees.

 

Jon let Martin suck on his cock for a while, sensing his furtive, semi-conscious desire to do so, his illogical willingness to believe that the act made all of this seem more like something he would have sought out for himself. Only when Martin's knees were sore did Jon push him onto his bed.

 

Jon felt Martin's thrill, half fear, half excitement. His cock was stiff and leaking, and although he was trembling with shame, his mind begged for release. Jon intended to give it to him. He spread Martin's thighs to either side, lifted his knees onto his shoulders, lined himself up. He could already feel Martin's anticipation and dread focusing him, calling his mind back from the complexities of a trillion viewpoints across the universe and into the simplicity of this animal pleasure.

 

When Jon entered him, he was prepared for that strange sense of bone-deep familiarity, of rightness. He was not prepared for Martin to feel the same.

 

Martin froze, his eyes widening, and then tried to scramble away; Jon pinned a struggling hand down onto the bed.

 

"Who are you?" he demanded. "How do you know me?"

 

"I'm nobody!" cried Martin, and Jon could see in his mind that was true. The story of his life was utterly predictable, the births and deaths of his family all in a straight line, the apple tree, his ill-advised attempts to rebel that had ended with him being brought to Jon's tower.

 

Jon dismissed the idea of interrogating further: he could not be lied to.

 

"Curious," he said. "Very curious."

 

He shifted his hips, and Martin moaned despite himself.

 

"A genuine mystery," he said, brushing back Martin's sweat-slicked hair as he knew Martin wanted him to, fucking him in the exact perfect way Martin had always wanted to be fucked. "It makes me want to keep you around."

 

 _He's a monster._ The thought had a hysterical edge to it. _I'm being fucked by a monster. I_ begged _him to fuck me._

 

In the next moment he came.

 

For Jon, there was nothing else in that moment except for Martin's body, hot and tight around his cock, and the ecstasy that flowed from Martin's mind to his. It filled his mind with bright light, blanking out everything else.

 

After, they lay panting side by side in the dark room. He could feel Martin's astonishment at the sound of air in his lungs.

 

"My body is flesh and blood," said Jon, in reply to the question Martin had not quite dared ask. "It was born, like yours."

 

Martin turned his face away.

 

"Please don't do that," he said into the sheets.

 

Jon didn't ask what he meant. He felt distant, his attention already turning away into the greater universe.

 

"It's in my nature," he said.

 

"But it wasn't always," said Martin suddenly, shifting back to him. "You were like me once. Just a man, a regular man. You—had a name. Didn't you? You must have. Something your parents gave you."

 

Jon didn't know of any parents. The Beholding was his maker. But he did have a name.

 

"Jon," he told him. "My name is Jon."


	3. Chapter 3

"Jon." Martin tried the name out on his tongue; again, that strange sense of familiarity. Both Martin, saying it, and Jon, hearing it in his voice, felt it.

 

He took in a breath. "Jon. Did you—?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Stop doing that!"

 

Jon felt irritation creep into his voice. "I can't. I've explained this."

 

"I don't believe you," said Martin stonily. "This business of you not being able to turn off your super mind magic unless you're shagging someone is—" Mentally he tried and discarded several words as unsuitable. "Nonsense! It's fucking nonsense!"

 

 _Well, when you say it like that,_ Jon thought, and found that the wryness of the thought surprised him.

 

"It happens to be true," he said, a little shortly. He dressed himself and summoned the guards with a touch of a switch, cutting off Martin's brewing rejoinder.

 

"Give him a room and free range of the tower. I'll send for him when I want him again."

 

It was true, what he had told Martin. He did mean it when he said he intended to keep him.

 

Martin's thoughts were a constant voice in his head after that. It was not distracting, precisely; he could not possibly be distracted by such a thing as a single human, but there was a certain intimacy to the running stream of emotion that he was unused to. Moments of anger or fear, felt from across the tower, sent strange jolts of adrenaline through his own blood. When Martin paced fretful circles around in his new room, Jon found himself tracing the same path around his chambers many flights upstairs. As fear ebbed into boredom, Martin tried tentatively to make friends with the servants. The attempts were so far unsuccessful, but they bled into Jon’s day in irritating ways, so that he ended up thanking the servant that brought him his breakfast without much thinking about it, to silent astonishment. Martin’s occasional fits of despair produced a corresponding, but meaningless, knot in Jon’s stomach. It was as if his thoughts grew louder the more Jon attempted to stay out of his head. And he _was_ attempting to. He hardly knew why.

 

Throughout it all, that feeling of some strange, inexplicable past connection only intensified.

 

Martin’s nights were more interesting. Rather than sleep, Martin’s bed inevitably brought thoughts of Jon. He would toss and turn on the too-soft bed, unable to stop thinking of Jon's hands roving over and inside him, helplessly subject to the fantasy until the small hairs on his body prickled with the phantom touch and his hands, too, began to rove.

 

Observing was necessary for the sake of observing. It was not...enjoyable, necessarily, to watch through Martin's eyes as he squirmed and panted, pumping himself desperately as he pretended not be calling the name on his lips. No, he could not say that he was very much more moved by seeing that than by anything else.

 

It wasn't very long before he called Martin to his rooms again.

 

* * *

 

 

"Liked watching me wank, did you?" enquired Martin, in a bitter spirit, as soon as Jon entered the room.

 

Jon paused. He had watched Martin come up with the remark over the course of most of the past hour, but he still hadn't decided how he ought to respond. Neither an affirmative nor a flat denial seemed adequate.

 

"You certainly knew I was watching," said Jon. "Am I wrong to be curious about you, Martin?"

 

"If it's wrong, then we're both wrong," said Martin, then turned pink at the unwonted honesty. "I mean—I didn't—why do you keep calling me that? That's not my name."

 

"I know," said Jon, intent. "But can you deny that it somehow feels right to you? That you are already beginning to respond to it, and to think of it as yours?"

 

"I can't deny it," said Martin, soft, resigned. He did not try to take back his answer, this time. He looked down, his brief moment of defiance gone. "I only wish I knew what it feels like for you."

 

"It feels," said Jon slowly. "As if there's a piece missing. There's something here that I don't understand, and it aches, aches as if—as if you had your eye cut out. Not knowing is anathema to me."

 

"Not knowing is the human condition," said Martin.

 

"I'm not."

 

"What?"

 

"Human."

 

"Yes you are!" said Martin fiercely. "I've felt you. Your heartbeat, and your breath, and your skin. Your name. You have to know what people call you, outside this tower. It's definitely not fucking _Jon_! If you're not human, then what are you?"

 

He was speaking more to convince himself than Jon, despite his vehemence. Jon said,

 

"You shouldn't have second-guessed yourself. You had it right before. I'm a monster. Now, get on your knees."

 

Martin was hard, instantly, at the command, his knees bending like so much paper. Where his mouth had been dry just a moment earlier, now it was slavering with anticipation. Thoughts skittered across the surface of his mind like seeds across the desert, finding no purchase; _can't wait to suck his cock i need i want_ followed by _i hate him i hate him i want him_ and then inchoate images of being wrapped in Jon's arms, his hands through his hair, tender embraces that lasted until morning; the desires of a man who needed love, and finding none, wanted its facsimile.

 

He crawled on his knees to Jon, thinking _If I do this then I'll deserve_ —but he could not name what he thought he deserved. With shaking hands he undid the straps of Jon's clothing and let them fall away.

 

The touch of his mouth was gentle, at first, his tongue darting at the head of Jon's cock with butterfly kisses that dabbed spots of wetness here and there, lingering on the slit, licking it, tasting the pre-come that had gathered there. The world, except for Martin, faded away.

 

Jon felt the change in Martin happen abruptly, some welling stormcloud of emotion rising through his chest, tender and hot. His body moved almost automatically to Martin's subconscious desires, thrusting suddenly into the back of his throat and choking him, but even so the first tear rolled down his cheek too early to come from the rough treatment.

 

Martin looked up at him with huge, weeping eyes as Jon fucked his mouth, grateful and unable to explain why.

 

Jon let him bury his face in the sheets when he fucked him, each ragged cry coming out muffled and the silk beneath his eyes becoming steadily more wet. Martin thought he was crying from the pain; Jon was fucking him as he had rarely fucked anyone, each thrust savagely hard and fast, his fingers leaving bruises on his hips. Jon sensed Martin's pain becoming pleasure, his sense of degradation mixing with utter satisfaction, and buried far beneath where Martin himself could not see it, his relief at hiding his tears. Jon thrust a final time, so hard that they were both seeing stars. Martin shuddered as he came, his cock, trapped between the bed and his body, spurting all over his own chest and stomach, and then shuddered again as he felt Jon finish inside him a second later.

 

With infinite care Jon flipped him over and began to clean off his chest with the corner of his discarded robe, dabbing at the scattershot white lines with the fabric. When it was done he looked up at Martin, who had been watching him.

 

The world outside the tower was already calling his attention, innumerable eyes opening in his mind, but he stayed still as Martin tentatively laid a hand on his forearm. Then, impulse becoming action like lightning sparking from sky to ground, Martin reached out and kissed him.

 

Jon felt his mouth open under his, soft with surprise. He had barely seen the thought form in Martin's mind, and Martin had never, even unconsciously, wanted to kiss him before, but there was no doubt in his mind now. He had pulled himself into the circle of Jon's arms, the better to kiss him deeply and ardently, with his entire body.

 

Jon hesitated only imperceptibly before putting a hand through Martin's hair, and they kissed like lovers do.

 


	4. Chapter 4

It was well past midnight, and neither of them had slept. In the dark they lay together, noses touching, breath mingling. In Martin's mind was fear, longing, revelation; he had not thought he could kiss a god like that.

 

He shifted a little on the bed, studying Jon's eyes, very faintly luminous now and distant, and musing absently on a half-forgotten memory of an apple tree. Some emotion rose up abruptly in Jon's throat. He stoppered it, but perhaps an expression had flickered across his face. Martin asked:

 

"Are you reading my mind right now?"

 

The words struck Martin as childish as soon as he said it, and he began to flush.

 

"Among other things, yes," said Jon. "You are one among the unnumbered."

 

"That makes me feel better," said Martin, although it didn't. He took a breath. "The things you see must be amazing," he said tentatively. "You know, forests, and shooting stars, and, and—" An image of lovers kissing and white flowers came into his mind unbidden. "Sunsets!" he blurted. "I love sunsets. And just, well, the lives of people. Having families, and helping each other. It must be nice, some of it, don't you think?"

 

"I do see all of those things," said Jon slowly. "That is true enough."

 

Martin propped himself up on his elbows. "Do you like any of it at all?" he asked. "Isn't there anything you see that you think is truly wonderful?"

 

Jon hesitated.

 

"What I think doesn't matter," he said finally. "But some of it might please you. I can...I can show you, if you like."

 

He held out his hand, and was surprised to see it tremble slightly. He was more surprised when he saw the decision in Martin's mind; biting his lip, he placed his hand within Jon’s.

 

Then they were in the far north, amidst a thicket of heavy, snow-shouldered firs. The girl pushed through the lower branches, needles brushing at her face, and into a featureless plain of snow, marked only by the lonely tracks of a neo-elk. Across it she could see the jagged outline of mountains in the distance, dark and sullen below the dancing lights of the aurora borealis.

 

To her people, a thousand years ago, the northern lights were the interplay between a solar wind and the magnetosphere. Five hundred years ago, they were the fires that burned on the other side of death. Two hundred years ago, they were central to the Cult of the Northern Mystery, whose members had modified their RNA to better see the hidden colors therein. Now, they were...they were a comfort to a girl who was lost in the forest outside her refugee camp after curfew.

 

She gazed up the lights, eyes wide, unaware that anything aside from herself was looking through them. Vast sheets of color rippled through the sky like a living flame, rising and falling in time to unheard celestial music. They entranced her—and Martin, too. Jon could feel his thrill of wonder, and his hand squeezing excitedly around his. He had never seen anything so beautiful. His body leaned forward unconsciously as if to get a better view out of the eyes of the girl, who never looked away.

 

Her vision blurred. The undulating waves stretched out into the sky like the skyscrapers of old. Warriors stalked across the tops of the parapets, and behind those flickering castle walls was a place where she could be safe, and warm, where her family was together and the men on horses never came.

 

The lights faded back into the sky. The girl let out one last sigh of wonder, and then looked around herself, remembering to be afraid. She didn't know the way back.

 

In her mind someone touched her on the shoulder. She looked up and saw a figure, thin and tall, with eyes that burned into her mind. They glowed brighter, and brighter, until they seemed to illuminate a golden path back through the forest and into a hidden entrance to the camp, one where the camp guards would not find her and beat her, and then the way to a warm hidden place to sleep, where an aid worker had absentmindedly left an extra ration behind. Her heart leapt. Hurriedly she dropped a curtsey, clumsy and unbalanced, grateful but not daring to question why the god of the world had chosen to visit her. She turned and dashed into the trees, flitting surefootedly along her golden path. A part of Jon stayed with her, watching, even as Martin opened his eyes on the bed and exclaimed in wonder.

 

"That was incredible," Martin burst out, as soon as the vision had faded from his mind. "I've never seen anything like that—I never knew anything like that could be possible! What was it, some kind of—giant marshfire? In the sky? No, that couldn't be it..."

 

He drifted momentarily into thought, but in the next second was marveling aloud over the colors, the shapes, how they changed like a flock of birds—his mind supplied an image of a murmuration of blood sparrows he had seen once, rising over the fractal jungles of Manchester.

 

"The girl, though," said Martin suddenly, cutting across his own thought. "Who was she? I swear I could almost feel what she was feeling, sometimes. What was she so afraid of?"

 

Jon regarded him. He had not meant to reveal anything about the girl other than what her eyes saw. Martin shouldn't have been able to feel her mind any more than he could a camera's. Jon did not mention this.

 

"She is afraid of the men who destroyed her people, and who even now seek to destroy the remainder," said Jon. "As for who she was: nobody. Just a girl."

 

Martin's expression twisted briefly, appalled, and then it hardened.

 

"I suppose it's always like that, isn't it?" he said, would-be lightheartedly. "For you, I mean."

 

_No_ , Jon wanted to say. _It's not always like that_ , but he swallowed the words. Instead he looked at himself through Martin's eyes.

 

It was the face of the man who had raped him, drugged him, imprisoned him; made him feel the violation of his own mind, where he ought to have been safe. Yet there was no burning coal of hatred within him. There was anger, yes, and resentment and fear; but there were also softer, more confused emotions, wrapped up in a tender sort of pity. It was something that Jon didn't know how to react to. He was gripped with an absurd thought that he shouldn't have even looked at it, a thought that announced itself as a glancing pain down his spine.

 

He wished he could be surprised. Humans would not have been nearly so useful to the Beholding if something did not draw them to willingly put their fingers in the flame, and Martin, whatever else he was to Jon, was nothing if not human.

 

“Now you know,” he said instead.

 

“I don’t, actually,” said Martin, shifting on the bed. “I understand less than ever. You can actually see things like _that_ on a daily basis—things that people like me could never dream of seeing. You couldn't possibly get tired of something like that every day, and I'm sure as anything there's a thousand more marvels that you have hidden away somewhere. You don't need more! Or you could help people. Like you helped the girl—"

 

"I do," said Jon, with an edge in his voice.

 

"Well, if you did it on, you know, a regular basis, they wouldn't exactly call it a miracle every time it happened, would they!"

 

"I don't answer prayers," Jon said coldly. "You don't want me to."

 

That silenced him for a moment. Martin's voice was small as he said;

 

"But you could still make the world better. Not everyone can, you know.”

 

Even if Jon wasn’t intimately familiar with the inner workings of his mind, he could have guessed what Martin really meant. _Instead of making the world worse_. He was too kind to say it out loud, which made Jon feel hot and sick at the same time.

 

He wished Martin would turn his eyes away. He was tired of looking at his own face. He tried, once again, not to look through him, to remove this one perspective from the trillions, quadrillions, that made up his mind. This time his vision refracted, faded, broke; it wasn’t gone, but it was possible to ignore it. He needed a gasp of air when he did it, but at least he didn’t have to see the way Martin was looking at him.

 

"I didn't tell anyone how to rule," said Jon eventually, painfully. "I only require their offerings."

 

“You know exactly what they’ll give you, though,” said Martin. “There’s nothing under this sun that’s new to you. Only rich governments can afford to be humanitarian about it, send machine eyes to space and to the center of the earth. Poor countries like mine have to get imaginative, don’t they? Cruelty’s the only thing left unplumbed. You’ve seen everything there is to see about love.”

 

There was a choking bitterness in his voice.

 

_Not everything_ , Jon thought inexplicably. He wasn’t in Martin’s head anymore, he could swear that he wasn’t, but he felt the same bitterness rise up in his throat. He forced it back.

 

"It would have been worse," said Jon, with complete truth. The Beholding's sibling-entities, coiled dead and undisturbed in the void outside reality, would have destroyed the world down to the most piddling law of physics and created something twisted in its place. Compared to that, his demands of novelty from the inhabitants of this reality were almost profoundly gentle. At least it allowed them the choice to live.

 

But Martin couldn’t possibly know any of that. The last human who had known of any of the others—the Stranger, the Vast, the Desolation—had died a thousand years ago. Martin said,

 

“So you’re not going to stop, are you?”

 

“No,” said Jon.

 

Jon thought the ensuing silence was only silence, but then Martin went very still.

 

“You’re not—” he said, and stopped.

 

“What?” snapped Jon. He did not like not knowing. It gnawed at him like an animal.

 

“You’re not reading my thoughts. Are you?”

 

“You’ve figured it out,” said Jon acerbically. He had never denied the Beholding like this before, and all his thoughts were too hard and sharp, lashing at his mind like whips.

 

Martin was silent another moment, and then his eyes widened.

 

“You’re really not,” he said, and Jon wondered what he had been thinking, that was meant to get such a reaction.

 

“I thought this was what you wanted,” he gritted out.

 

“It was!” said Martin quickly. “It was. It’s just—I mean, no. This is good.”

 

“It’s...good,” repeated Jon flatly. “Well that’s…good.”

 

“I just didn’t think you could, is all,” said Martin.

 

“Neither did I,” admitted Jon.

 

“How long will you—?”

 

Martin left the question unfinished, but Jon knew without the need for telepathy what he meant. He considered his answer, turning it over in his mouth in the dimness of the room, the sheets of his bed too warm suddenly where they tangled around his legs.

 

“As long as you want,” he said finally. It felt like an offering.

 

He was used to feeling Martin’s emotions from the inside, intimately, before they could appear on his face. It took him too long to realize Martin was smiling. Jon stared at the way it changed his entire face, like a light shining through him, within him, sanctifying whatever it touched, the bed and the room and the entire world made holy around them.

 

“Jon,” said Martin. He swallowed, but Jon couldn’t tell whether it was nervousness or desire or something else. “Jon, touch me.”

 

Jon remembered the kiss, and the surprise of it that had been almost sweeter than the taste on his lips. The temptation for another was too strong to resist.

 

He reached out a hand, feeling oddly tentative, nervous, awake. When his palm met Martin's flesh, it was as if they had never touched before. Jon was burning, breathing fast. He had only a human's instincts to guide him, and only his own set of eyes to tell him what to do. He swallowed around the dryness in his throat.

 

"You have to tell me what you want," said Jon, low.

 

"I want you," said Martin immediately. "This is how humans make love, Jon. We have to guess, and fumble, and do our best. I just want you to try."

 

Were they making love? Jon wished more than anything that he could see inside Martin's mind to what he meant by that. His hands were trembling. He ran them down Martin's sides, over his hips, and Martin gasped.

 

He was a blind man in the dark, groping, uncertain, hoping that what he was doing was right. He lowered his mouth to Martin’s skin, kissing down the planes of his body. Everything in him was wide awake and alert, listening for the soft sounds that were his only guide, Martin’s gasps connected like a nerve to Jon’s hands, his mouth. He nuzzled into the soft skin where his hips met his thigh and was rewarded with an outright moan. Jon chased the sound, hungry for more, uncertain of getting it. He lapped at Martin’s skin like it was water and he was a dog dying of thirst; his tongue probed, swirled, lathered. He was tasting Martin’s cock, the salt of his skin sweet on his tongue. He took it into his mouth.

 

Martin’s moans were a line of electricity going down his spine. They spurred him on. His hands crept between Martin’s thighs, stroking them, squeezing. Jon had never felt so lost, so human. Martin was thrusting a little into Jon’s mouth, small abortive jerks of his hips that threatened to brush the back of his throat. Jon did not dare take his eyes away from his work long enough to see Martin’s face, but there was a telltale flush spreading across his chest and down the line of hair on his stomach.

 

“Ah—god, yes, yes, Jon!”

 

Martin’s hands scrabbled at his shoulders, drawing him up. Jon crawled up the length of Martin’s body, trembling. Every movement was at once too quick and too slow. He wished he had the power to make the seconds ebb, to change the water of time to molten glass, to wrap them forever in a cocoon of slow time. He kissed Martin’s collarbone, his neck, his mouth. They were pressed into each other, skin to skin, knees slipping between thighs, legs spreading slowly, sweetly. Jon was aching for him. He didn’t know what Martin thought, what Martin felt. He only knew that Martin was panting against his mouth, his moans catching in his throat and making him come alive. The world had long since faded away from his Eye. There was nothing except for Martin, and even that was forbidden to him, a mystery. Jon wanted desperately to be inside him, within him, the way he used to be.

 

His cock was slick with pre-come and sweat. Every movement of Martin’s body beneath his seemed to coax more out of his aching cock. His hips moved nearly of their own accord, dragging the wet tip of it along the length of Martin’s. The sound that came out of Martin then was nearly a whimper. Jon moved against him again, spreading the slickness from them both until there was no friction between them.

 

They rocked against each other, sloppy and quick. There was no grace to Jon’s movements; he was rutting desperately against the underside of Martin’s cock, hard against his, against the soft skin of his belly, chasing Martin’s moans as much as his own. Martin stiffened suddenly, all over his body, his mouth falling open into a wet circle and his eyes fluttering now open, now closed. He came all over himself, painting his own chin and mouth with white. The sight of his lips flecked in white made Jon lose his control. With a sharp cry he let loose, adding more white to the mess of Martin’s chest and neck, their come mixing together. They collapsed back into the bed together, breathing hard.

 

But Jon had no time to catch his breath. The Eye would open again, soon, and the world would come fading in. He turned to Martin in the bed.

 

"Was—was that alright?" he asked, with some hesitancy. He had never before simply not _known_.

 

Martin, to his horror, began to laugh.

 

"You're just a man," he said. Wonder and astonishment dawned in his face. He reached out to touch Jon's cheek, laughter subsiding, his smile almost fond, sweetly sad. "You're just a man."


	5. Chapter 5

 

For the next two weeks there was a hole in Jon's world.

 

Martin had forbidden him from using the servants to spy on him, either, to which Jon had said, bewildered, that it wasn't spying. Martin had stood his ground nevertheless, so that Jon, with enormous effort, stayed out of the minds of his servants also. It ached in his soul like a tumor. He had not been lying when he had told Martin that not knowing was anathema to him. Some days he woke from the not-sleep that served to rest his body to find himself panting for breath, or spots before his eyes—his real eyes. But he was still sound of body, for the most part, and Martin still came to his bed; he could continue for now. It was enough. He had what he had not had for centuries: a willing lover in his bed. He had thought the part of him that cared for such things had burned away long ago.

 

Tonight Martin was coy, teasing. He had brought a candle, and its flickering light painted his body with gold as he moved, his hips undulating with agonizing slowness, his knees pressed to Jon’s ribs. They didn’t speak, but Martin’s hand was in Jon’s, their fingers laced together. The beat of blood in Martin’s palm and the shadowy flutter of Martin’s eyelashes against his cheeks was better than language. He lay back, panting, subsumed by the pleasure of the languorous roll of Martin’s hips on his cock. Jon nearly felt human. Martin had told him that he must have been a man once, and there was no reason to think that was not true. He wondered if there were ever nights like this, for the man Jon once was, whether he was ever allowed to touch like this, and be touched. For a moment he almost wanted to find out. But no; by the grace of the Beholding, Jon was permitted to remain a mystery to himself. It was the Beholding’s first and only gift.

 

In the light of the candle Martin looked like a flame himself; heat and air and motion in a man’s shape. Jon was melting, losing coherency, softening like wax. He could only call Martin’s name, softly, but his voice, too, was losing its shape, breaking like coals, like ash. He was no longer the avatar of the Beholding, but in a moment he was not human, either; he was liquid, he was molten ore. The air in his lungs had turned to smoke. He could not get enough air to breathe, he was panting. The only part of him that was still solid was his cock, because Martin was fucking down on it, and even at this maddeningly slow, half-beat rhythm, the sensation could steal the strength from his body. He could not hold on; Martin was so tight around him, tight and slick and moving so slowly, like he had all the time in the world to fuck himself on Jon’s cock, like he liked nothing better than to do it. Jon moaned aloud, his entire body jerking up as if something had pulled on his strings, and came.

 

The release seemed to go on for an eternity, his hips fucking upwards into Martin until he felt utterly spent, all of what remained of himself pouring into Martin.

 

Jon closed his eyes when it was over. There would be more eyes opening soon enough; he wanted for a moment to see nothing, feel nothing. Martin took in a trembling breath.

 

"No," he whispered. "Stay with me. Stay...."

 

With all the will in the world, Jon could not. The Beholding hungered to observe, and Jon served the Beholding. His gaze began to slip away.

 

Then Martin brought him back. Distantly he felt pleasure beginning to build again, the hot wet desperate press of Martin’s mouth an irresistible pull. It was too soon for him to be hard again, his entire body was aching at the hooks of desire that caught at him, but he was caught anyway, twisting under Martin’s mouth, consumed. Jon had thought he was spent, empty, but Martin called still more of him forth until he was desperate and longing. His hands twisted in Martin’s hair.

 

The eyes that had begun to open in his mind closed again. He would pay for this, later: he could not run up this debt to the Beholding forever. But that was nothing, barely a consideration. The Beholding would have him for a thousand more years, longer: he would only have Martin for these moments carved out of time. And Martin could make those moments last forever, it felt like: an eternity of Martin’s wet mouth, his tongue sliding along Jon’s cock, already slippery with come, his lips closing around the base, his throat tightening convulsively around the sensitive head, so tight that Jon could not choke back another moan.

 

After that Martin drew back, his palms suddenly wet against Jon’s thighs, and sat up. His movements were suddenly frenetic, his hips shifting above Jon’s body in the candlelight. He lowered himself onto Jon’s cock. There was something desperate about him, something that did not seem like the Martin who shared his bed, but there was no room in Jon’s mind for thought. He was lost again, thrusting up blindly into Martin’s heat, his slickness, fucking him through his own come. Martin’s thighs felt sweaty and warm where they straddled his waist, the weight of him incredible. He was over-sensitive, every nerve ending screaming and awake, but it was his own body feeling the pleasure, his own perceptions and no one else’s. And Martin and given that to him. Jon was grateful, desperate and moaning and blind, and—and Martin’s hips stuttered, and Jon heard, distinctly, the sound of a low sob.

 

And Jon, shuddering with pleasure, opened his eyes and saw the tears running down Martin’s face. Martin’s eyes were on the candle. It had been notched along the side, and the flame had nearly burned down to the final notch. There was something wrong.

 

In rapid order, Jon contemplated the promise he had made Martin, and broke it. He snapped his perception wide, and saw through the eyes of the assassin creeping along the halls of his tower. Martin, still on top of him, took in a quick desperate gasp. Jon did not need to look into his mind to see the truth; the half-guilty, half-relieved expression on his face spoke for him.

 

Jon reached out to the mind of the assassin, now rushing towards his chamber door, and broke it. They both heard the hollow thud against the door as he collapsed against it. Martin froze, his hips stilling against Jon’s, but Jon felt hungrier than ever, more alive than ever. He pulled Martin’s head down to his and kissed him, kissed him even as Martin sobbed and feebly tried to jerk away, kissed him like there was nothing more beautiful in the entire world.


End file.
